


Badgered and Browbeaten

by morganoconner



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pneumonia, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski has been on this case for weeks. It's possible he should have been taking better care of himself, but who has the time when there are dead bodies piling up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Badgered and Browbeaten

**Author's Note:**

> I needed something to cleanse the palate between big bang projects, and this is what happened when I chanced a look at my H/C bingo card. To be fair, I've been meaning to write some stories with these two for a while. Hopefully I didn't do too terribly!
> 
> I did intend this as pre-slash, but it can certainly read as friendship as well, so I've labeled it as gen. I hope no one minds that.
> 
> Many thanks to Miya for looking this over for me. ♥

John has trouble letting things go. His wife used to say that he was like a dog with a bone, the way he latched onto things or ideas or puzzles or _people_. (She'd always say it with a smile, because that's the way he'd latched onto her, and that had worked out pretty okay for them.)

It made him a good deputy, and if the voters can be believed, it makes him a pretty good sheriff, too. He doesn't let a case rest until he has it solved, the bad guys behind bars and the good guys able to breathe easy. For smaller cases, it's a blessing.

For bigger cases, the ones that drag on for weeks or months, it's hell on earth.

It's the reason John is out here in the woods at two o'clock in the morning, in the miserable, drizzling rain, tramping through sodden earth and fallen leaves when he should be at home, in bed, fighting off the cold he hasn't been able to get rid of in weeks.

His sudden bout of coughing is loud and violent, like it's responding to his thoughts, and he stops for a moment to lean against a convenient tree and ride it out. His chest feels like it's on fire by the time the fit finally dies down a little, and he'd sell his right arm for some water. An aspirin also wouldn't go amiss right now, given the way the coughing has brought this afternoon's headache back tenfold.

Sighing, Jon looks around to get his bearings. He knows this area pretty well by now, given how often he and his deputies have been over it. He's not too far from the place the first victim was found.

It's just, he can't help feeling like he's missing something. It nags at him, day in and day out. He never finds anything at these sights, no matter how many times he looks, but he has to _try_. It plagues his dreams, dragging him from sleep, making it hard to even go home until he's had 'just one last look'.

Stiles would kill him if he knew. Kid would probably hogtie him to his bed and stuff sleeping pills down his throat. He'd bring him straight to the ER if he ever heard John's cough, but John's barely seen his son in weeks. Managed to keep it to himself that he's even been sick. It makes him feel terrible, because it feels too much like lying, and they've had too much of that between them the past year. On the other hand, not having Stiles mother-henning him is also a relief.

Stiles doesn't realize how much like his mother he can be.

John takes a deep breath (not deep enough, but he's not thinking about the tightness in his chest and how hard it is to get a full breath right now) and pushes away from his tree. He keeps going until he finds the place he's looking for. The crime scene tape has long since been broken, fluttering half-heartedly against the tree trunks it was tied around or dragging through the mud.

John's flashlight trails along the ground around the big tree, shining brightly on dirt and leaves and twigs and absolutely nothing of any value, as expected. He brings it up along the trunk, walking slowly around, looking for something, _anything_ that might lead to a clue. Preferably before more people die.

He coughs again, not as bad this time, but still enough to steal his breath. He's bent over with his eyes closed, heart pounding in his ears, and maybe that's why he doesn't hear anyone coming up behind him until there's a touch on his shoulder and he's whirling around, going for the gun at his belt out of instinct.

Fingers close hard around his wrist before he can get there, and a voice in his ear says, "Easy, sheriff. We're on the same side here."

John blinks, and takes in the sight of Christopher Argent standing in front of him with a shotgun in his free hand, his own flashlight on the ground now, sacrificed to make sure the sheriff of Beacon County didn’t shoot him. _Jesus._

"What are you doing out here?" John demands, wrenching his hand away and taking a defensive step back. He crosses his arms and fixes Argent with a suspicious glare.

"Same thing you are, I'd imagine. Looking for clues." Argent's eyebrow goes up. "That sounds like a hell of a cough, by the way. You should get that checked out."

"Well, damn, now I know you have a PhD in medicine, I'll be sure to get right on that." John is not in a good mood, hasn't been in a good mood all night (all week, all _month_ ), and this is not helping. "You shouldn't be out here, Mr. Argent. You're not qualified to be dealing with this."

"It's Chris. Mr. Argent was my father," Chris says, his voice hard all of a sudden. "And I'm plenty qualified to deal with more things than you realize. You, on the other hand, look like you couldn't go two rounds with a washed-up drug addict right now. What exactly do you plan on doing if you find the killer? Besides coughing some germs on him."

John has a response all ready, and it's a damn good one, if he says so himself, except that he's drawing breath to let loose one second, and the next he's doubled over, coughing so hard he can't draw breath, his chest seizing in agony.

He almost doesn't here Argent's ( _Chris's_ ) muttered curse, but he does feel it when the man presses a hand to his chest, backing him against the tree for support, and another one to his forehead. "Christ, you're burning up, just how sick are you?"

 _Sick enough to know better_ , John doesn't say, because for one thing, he has his pride, and for another, he's still having trouble breathing the way he should be, even if the coughing isn't quite as bad all of a sudden with a warm hand right there steadying him. The forest is sort of spinning when John manages to open his eyes and look up again, but Chris doesn't let go, and that helps.

Chris sighs, probably in disgust. "Like father, like son, obviously," he mutters, and before John can begin to parse that, "All right, let's go."

"Go?" John asks, feeling a little bit dumb. It's not a feeling he particularly cares for.

"Yes, _go_. What, you think I'm letting our county sheriff kill himself out here? There'd be a lot more upset, angry, _scared_ people than I think we're prepared to deal with if that happened."

John sighs, any fight that was left in him just abandoning him all at once. He knows Chris is right, just like he knows how disappointed his son is going to be if (when) he catches wind of this. "Probably right," he mumbles.

Chris eyes him for a long moment, then tugs him away from the tree and latches an arm around him before he can stumble. John probably doesn't need the help getting back to his cruiser, but it's a two mile hike, and he isn't going to say no to it, either. He's still got a death grip on his flashlight, so he shines it up, back toward the path. "So tell me your symptoms," Chris says as they start walking.

"You're still not a doctor," John reminds him, but he tells him anyway, because walking two miles in silence is going to be awkward, and conversation might help keep his mind off the pain in his chest.

Chris grunts. "Pneumonia. Victoria had symptoms same as yours a couple years ago. You're too damn stubborn to stay down when you're sick, just like she was, aren't you?"

 _Shut up_ would be a classic Stiles response here, and John likes to think he's past that point in his own maturity, thank you. And given that Chris just lost Victoria not too long ago, and John knows exactly how he must be feeling every time he so much as speaks her name, it would probably also come across as inappropriate. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

"Right," Chris says after a minute. "Well, you're not coughing up blood and your fever isn’t too bad. We can probably avoid the ER tonight.

 _We?_ John doesn't ask.

"But you're seeing a doctor tomorrow, and you're letting that kid of yours take care of you for a few days, or the mayor and I are going to be sitting down for a discussion about how it might be time to start thinking about another election for sheriff."

John wonders if the threat being implied here is that Chris himself would run against him and win. He likes to think his town has more taste than that, but they've let him go once already, and he'd rather not take the chance. Also, Chris would make an awful sheriff. "Fine," he agrees sullenly. So much for avoiding Stiles' mother-hen routine. There'll be no living with the kid after this.

Chris glances over at him, smirking. "Well. At least you have _some_ common sense."

"Hey," John says suddenly. "Where's your…you had a flashlight and a shotgun with you, right?"

"I'll get them later." Chris says it easily, like he's not leaving what's probably a very high-priced weapon in the woods for anyone to find.

"What the hell were you doing with a shotgun out here anyway?" John grumbles. He wants to turn around right now and go back for them, because leaving them there really isn't okay, but he's not sure he won't topple over if he doesn't just keep walking in a relatively straight line right now.

"You never know what you might find in these woods, Sheriff," Chris replies cryptically. "If it's really going to bother you, I have someone I can call to come and get it. Although I'm pretty sure we're the only two people stupid enough to be out here at this time on a Wednesday night in this weather."

John hadn't even realized it was still drizzling, although by now he's soaked down to the skin and he's shivering…possibly _has_ been shivering for a while. "Call," he says, because some things just aren't okay, damn it. Then he makes himself add, "Please."

Chris sighs. He continues tugging John along until all at once they're coming off the path and onto the main road, right where John parked his cruiser, and where Chris apparently parked his SUV right behind it.

So Chris knew all along that he'd find the sheriff in there, and he still went in after him, equipped with a flashlight and a shotgun. John has no idea what to make of that, but he's sure he should be making something.

Huh.

"Keys," Chris says, holding a hand out.

John blinks, brows furrowing. "Excuse me?"

Chris eyes him steadily. "You're not driving, sheriff. I'm reasonably certain you wouldn't make it half a block before crashing into a mailbox."

"Yeah, well I'm reasonably certain that you…you…" John falters, his mind drawing a blank on whatever amazing(ly immature) comeback he was about to have. His head is pounding again, and the truth is, Chris is probably right. Again. "Damn it."

Chris isn't doing a good job of hiding that smile on his face. "Allison can pick me up in the morning and bring me back to my car. It'll be a lot better than someone finding _yours_ abandoned on the side of the road, don't you think?"

"Maybe," John admits grudgingly. Then he blinks again. "Wait, you're _staying_ –"

"Keys, sheriff," Chris repeats, cutting John off mid-sputter.

"Later on," John mutters, "you and I are going to have a long talk about the kind of respect you should or shouldn't show to a public authority figure."

"I look forward to it," Chris assures him, plucking the keys right out of John's hand and herding him into the passenger side of his own damn car.

The drive to his house is mostly silent. John reclines the seat back a little, because it's easier to breathe that way, and he stares out the window at the blurry lights going by, daydreaming of dry clothes and warm blankets and maybe some tea before bed. He doesn't drink tea, he actually hates the stuff, but he keeps a box of his wife's favorite kind around anyway. Habit, or comfort maybe. But it's warm, and maybe it will help him sleep.

He's half asleep as it is by the time they pull into the driveway next to Stiles' Jeep. He manages to get out of the car and all the way up to the front steps on his own before the renewed pain in his chest makes him sag. The persistent tickle in his throat turns into a new bout of coughing that he tries to muffle in the crook of his arm, because Stiles has taken to sleeping with his window open lately, and that kid is a light sleeper.

Chris, still in possession of John's keys, unlocks the front door without his help and guides John inside and up the stairs. John silently points out his own room, and lets Chris all but drag him in there. He's plopped unceremoniously on the edge of his bed while Chris digs through his dresser drawers for sleepwear.

Something about this should be making John all kinds of uncomfortable, but the truth is it's kind of nice to not have to fend for himself while he feels this crappy. Tomorrow, he'll take the time to be annoyed about being bossed around. Tonight, he just can't bring himself to mind.

Dropping a pair of sweatpants and a soft cotton t-shirt on John's lap, Chris studies him.

"You gonna dress me, too?" John asks tiredly.

"You need my help with that?" Chris counters. He makes sure to keep his voice quiet, which John is grateful for.

John snorts. He waves a hand at the door. "You can go. Couch pulls out. Bedding in the cabinet next to the bathroom."

He drags himself back up as Chris slips out, tugging off his stiff, sodden uniform and throwing on the sweats and t-shirt Chris gave him. Just the act of dressing is enough to exhaust him, and he crawls onto the bed and under the covers feeling like death. He'd planned on taking a shower before bed, but just the thought of it is enough to make him want to cry. When he coughs again, he turns his head enough so that the sound gets buried in his pillow.

"Brought you some water," Chris says from the doorway. "And some aspirin." He walks over, dropping the pills into John's hand when he holds it out, watching him like a hawk as he downs both of them with a few gulps of water. By the time he flops back against his pillows, Chris is nodding, already going to turn off the lights. "Sleep well, sheriff."

"S'John," John mumbles, eyes already closing. "After all this, you can probably call me John. Thanks, Chris."

He's out before he can hear any reply Chris makes.

  
*  


Waking doesn't bring much in the way of relief, but John didn't really expect it to. His eyes feel gritty, and every muscle aches. He's cold and clammy and still having trouble taking full breaths, and his chest feels like an elephant is sitting on him.

He's also exhausted, but that doesn’t keep him from blinking his eyes open the moment he hears his son up and showering, getting ready for school. He's pretty sure that he's going to have to bite the bullet and let Stiles stay home for a day or two, because he doesn't think he's capable of moving much right now. He hates that he needs the help, but he almost definitely does.

Well, he brought it on himself, he admits to himself wryly.

None of that stops him from hauling himself out of bed. He grips his nightstand, waiting for the dizziness to pass, and then forces himself out of the room and down the stairs.

The living room is immaculate. If Chris bothered pulling out the foldaway bed, there's no trace of it now. John half expects the man to be gone already, but then he looks up and sees him standing in the kitchen, pouring something into a mug.

"You made tea?" John asks. His voice comes out more like a croak.

Chris glances up, and that's definite concern in his eyes, no way is John bad enough to be hallucinating things like that. Placing the kettle back on the stove, Chris comes back into the living room. He presses the mug carefully into John's hands and guides him down to the couch. "You shouldn't be out of bed," he says, obviously trying to use his dad voice to sound stern. John has used that tone enough himself to recognize it, and it makes him smile a little bit now.

"Heard Stiles getting up. Figured he'd wonder why there was a strange man in the house if I wasn't here to explain." John takes a sip of what is definitely tea, made with just a hint of honey, almost exactly the way Caro used to make it when he was sick. He swallows it down around a lump in his throat.

"Well, at least sit down and rest," Chris says. "I'm making breakfast now, since Allison's running a little late. Should give you enough time to call Stiles out of school and make an appointment with your doctor." He gives John a don't-you-dare-argue-with-me look. He also takes a folded blanket off the back of the chair across the room and tosses it around John's shoulders.

John has to laugh. "Jesus, you're as bad as my wife and Stiles ever were."

"Yeah?" Chris tilts his head, his lips quirking up. He looks strangely delighted by the thought. "Been a while. Allison almost never gets sick."

John shakes his head, hiding another smile by continuing to sip his tea while Chris shuffles back into the kitchen.

Thing is, John is used to Stiles taking care of him. Stiles has been doing it since his mom passed away, even when John doesn't need it. He lets him, because he's pretty sure that _Stiles_ needs it, after not being able to take care of Caro when she was so sick. But John isn't so good at letting other people see him when he's down, and it's strange, how okay he is with Chris here, now, like this. Especially given the way Chris all but bullied his way inside. John figured by now he'd be mad as hell about how went down last night.

But he's just…not.

He barely knew Chris Argent before meeting up in those woods, really only a few hours ago now, and this morning he'd almost go as far as to call the guy a friend. It's confusing, is what it is. John's not used to people pushing their way into his life like that. Last person to do it had been…

Well, that had been his wife.

Still. He can go with it for now.

And, he decides, it's completely worth it for the way Stiles freezes mid-stumble down the stairs ten minutes later, staring back and forth between John on the living room couch and Chris at the kitchen stove. His mouth hanging open wide enough that his chin is going to start dragging on the ground soon, and his eyes huge and round.

"Dad…?"

"Morning Stiles," John says, dredging up a smile for his son as he drags a blanket tighter around himself. "You've met Chris Argent, haven't you?"

Stiles sputters incoherent sounds, and Chris smiles pleasantly at him as he brings John a plate of breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in chatting (or just stalking, that's cool too), I can always be found on tumblr [here](http://morganoconner.tumblr.com/). I'm even getting better about posting!


End file.
